


Bloodright

by Jarakrisafis



Series: Isana [12]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:06:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23936557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jarakrisafis/pseuds/Jarakrisafis
Summary: Halward is no stranger to unknown missives, he's a Magister. Threats are all part of the game.
Series: Isana [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1568344
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	Bloodright

**Author's Note:**

> dragonageden prompt: Family (including found family)

The first missive is delivered as the year is drawing to a close. It’s an unseasonably cold day, the wind just a touch too high to eat outside under the awnings. Instead they are inside and the slave that brought the message cannot give him any more details than it being delivered by a Soporati. No doubt an errand boy earning a few coppers so the sender of the missive he’s holding can remain anonymous.

He runs a finger over the ink on the front with a frown. It’s not written by a hand he recognises, nor by any Tevinter scribe, when concealing handwriting is required.

It’s just not quite right, some of the letters a touch off, a little too blocky. A slight indent where the nib has pressed too hard and the ink spread just a touch more than any decent magister would allow on a missive intended for one of his rank. It certainly is for him though. _Halward, House Pavus_ , is the only writing on the outer envelope.

He taps it against the table. The only sound is paper against wood. He’s already let his magic curl round it, checking for traps of a magical nature, and there too was nothing. He frowns, reaching for the fine blade fetched from his study. The sharp edge parts the parchment without a crinkle and he uses the tip of the letter opener to lift the envelope until a small square of parchment drops out.

A single line is written in the centre in the same hand as his name is. _Think hard on your choices_ , is all it says. The ink is blood red. Coincidental? He thinks not. Who would dare to try and tell a Magister what to do? And perhaps more importantly, who might know about the dabbling he’s done on that path and would send an unsigned missive.

He burns both envelope and parchment scrap, watching them until they are nothing more than ash. It’s not the first threat he’s received. It certainly won’t be the last. If you don’t receive death threats and assassination attempts at least semi regularly you’re not doing a good enough job.

\---

The second missive comes only two weeks later. This one is not delivered, as such. It is left on the front step and the maid who brings it to him swears she saw nobody.

He does the same tests as the last one got. He’s not going to get complacent just because the last one was not set to kill him. He knows, knew, a Magister who fell for that. He should know, he’s the one who sent them and smiled consolingly to his widow when she raged about how the anonymous researcher he’d been working with suddenly turned on him.

Again he lets his fingers roam over the page, good quality parchment, it seems a waste that it will likely be going in the fire soon. He lingers over a light drip of ink after his name, as if the hand holding the pen had been surprised, yet they didn’t start again with a fresh sheet.

He opens it up and another torn scrap flutters out to rest on the table. Gold ink that glitters in the light meets his gaze as he raises a brow. Interesting.

_‘And so is the Golden City blackened’_

What message is there in that? He picks the parchment up, rubbing a thumb over the letters. Threnodies, 8:13, on the ascension of man into the Golden City; it goes on to detail the fall and blackening of Heaven. Another warning then. He’s been more circumspect with his experiments, clearly not enough.

\---

The third missive is left on his desk. He has all the slaves lashed for their lack of vigilance as not one of them saw a thing. He then spends the afternoon setting better traps around the study. He has things in there he would rather not be seen. As most Magisters no doubt have. Only when he is done securing his private sanctum does he move to the lounging room to read what new wisdom he’s going to be graced with.

The writing is perhaps a little more rushed this time, the words less curved and graceful and there’s a drip in the corner that was hastily wiped away. Still no traps are revealed and the parchment scrap he’s expecting is there.

He frowns at the script, the black ink sprawling over the parchment. _What you have lost, so we have found. And what we find, we keep._ He scowls, brow furrowing until he can feel a headache pounding at his temples. He’s only missing one thing that he’d really like back right now. He even knows where to look. Dorian never did do anything by half. Halward knows exactly where to look for him when he decides to go fetch what is his.

He’s simply been hesitating as it’s a long journey and the Inquisition, as they are calling their demon hunting band was not expected to survive for long. Now it seems to be getting stronger he has been thinking about going South, to bring him back home.

He picks the parchment up and casts it into the fire, watching the flames eat through the words. Who is sending them is the question he needs to answer. Who has the ear of his son and the reach to get messages all the way to Tevinter.

\---

The fourth missive is left on his bed. Not his bed, but the one he’s using in the inn he rented in which to meet his son and convince him, by one means or another to return home. He should have been expecting one, despite the fact he’s not left the inn and been within sight of the door at all times. What challenge is an inn that looks like it’s being held together by prayers when his magic was no deterrent.

He goes through the tedious checks before slitting the envelope, though he pauses for a moment on his name and the scratch where the nib has bitten through the paper, as if the writer was unable to keep their hand steady.

A scrap of fabric is inside and he blinks at the sight of his own House symbol cut cleanly in two as he unwraps the parchment. He has to check his robe to ensure it’s still in place it’s that good a replica. _I would not do what you are planning. The Kalnath have a very long reach indeed._

The ink is acid green.

Halward sits back, an incredulous laugh escaping him. Of course. Who else. There had been rumours that suggested the Inquisitor was a Dwarf and that they had connections that were a little on the more… Shady side. Halward hadn’t paid them much attention, what did he care what the Inquisitor was, he wasn’t planning to speak to them. And if he did have to talk to them, it would only be to point out that he was the head of House Pavus and thus did have the right to decide what his own son should be doing.

The fire flares as the parchment is added to it. He’ll have to think of something else now his son seems to have found a rather inconvenient protector. Perhaps once this business is done there will be a way. Yes. He can play along now. He won’t be outsmarted by a Dwarven crime family. Dorian will come home to his true family one way or another. It might just take a little longer than Halward wanted it to.


End file.
